Shadows
by FraidyCat
Summary: You think you've finally got your grip back on life, and it turns out you're an idiot. Brief Oneshot.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****Shadows**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I would hope that you each understand, at this point, that despite occasional "interventions". all things "numb3rs" began and remain as the property of Those Other People.**

**Summary: You think you've got your grip back on life, and it turns out you're an idiot. This is a Oneshot, because I don't have the stamina to drag this whump out any further.**

Four years of college.

Four years of medical school.

One transitional, rotating-specialty, year of internship; and two, separate five-year residencies.

Dr. Samuel W. McClintock the Third, sitting in his expensive leather chair behind an enormous cherry desk in a tastefully-decorated 800-square-foot office, still hated this part. With an absolute passion, he hated this part.

His demeanor was professional, yet sympathetic, and his own issues stayed successfully in the box where he kept them. "I'm truly very sorry," he assured the man before him. The doctor was a little surprised at how well the news had been received, and he thumbed through a few pages in the thick chart before him. "Ah...", he murmured, at length. "I remember, now. We discussed this when we removed the melanoma five years ago. You understood then that it was of the metastatic variety, and already a Stage IV cancer. Survival rate..."

The man nodded and finished the sentence for him. "Nine to fifteen percent, yes. I'm very good with numbers." A proud grin flashed across his features. "I've always liked to believe my youngest gets at least part of that from me."

Dr. McClintock, was still reading some old notes. Eventually, he quietly closed the folder and regarded Alan sadly. "Did you ever tell them?"

Alan's face finally showed some expression, and he swallowed thickly. "No. No. It was too soon after my...after Margaret's death. Charlie -- he's my youngest -- he was still almost a ghost himself. He was hardly ever in the house, and he never even noticed the small bandage on my arm. It wasn't there long enough for Donnie to see it. He didn't come over much for a while. He was so angry. So angry. Much of that was aimed at his younger brother." He leaned forward a little in his chair, and seemed pensive, remembering. "I think having a target for his emotions may have helped him in some way. God knows, I was a little angry at Charlie myself...so for the most part, I let the two of them work it out."

"If I remember correctly, your youngest was a gifted child?"

"A genius," Alan interrupted proudly. "He's a well-known mathematician now, a professor at CalSci..."

It was the doctor's turn to interrupt. "And he was quite incapable of dealing emotionally with his mother's illness."

Alan actually looked a little embarassed. "Yes. Yes."

"It's been five years. How are things now?"

Alan sighed, and leaned back in the chair. "Good, I think," he answered. "Charlie has been working with his brother a lot the last few years, and I think they've rediscovered their brotherhood, to a certain extent." He actually laughed, a little. "Doen't hurt that Don started therapy, this year! Charlie has come a long way in the last five years. He even has a lovely girlfriend, now." Unexpected tears pressed at the back of Alan's eyes as he began to understand he never would meet any of his grandchildren, from either son.

Dr. McClintock's voice was soft. "Will they..." He shifted in his chair. "Well. No-one handles this kind of news easily. But are they ready to pull together, do you think? You'll need their support. Emotionally, physically."

Alan looked wistful. "I don't suppose I can hide it for very long. Both the lungs and the liver, you say?"

The doctor nodded silently and Alan shook his head. "Margaret always tried to get me to use sunblock." His voice finally wavered. "I can't believe this started out as a skin cancer. Even when you told me that it was malignant five years ago, I really didn't think this could happen!"

"People never do," said the young physician in an old, world-weary voice. "People never do."

Alan stood, and brushed imaginary dirt off his jeans. "Well," he said, not-quite meeting the doctor's eyes. "Well. Donnie is stopping by this evening for dinner. Tri-tip on the grill, I'm thinking. The boys like that."

Dr McClintock watched him leave, granting Alan the respect to let him go on his own terms.

Three to six months.

He would always hate this part.


	2. Shadows Lengthen

**Title: ****Shadows Lengthen**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I would hope that you each understand, at this point, that all things "numb3rs" began and remain as the property of Those Other People.**

**Summary: You think you've got your grip back on life, and it turns out you're an idiot. This is a "Oneshot Sequel" to "Shadows".**

He sat on the damp bench facing the two graves, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, and welcomed the drizzle of rain. The gloom was a necessary part of the day. As he shivered in his light jacket, he was unable to determine which part of him was more miserable -- the physical body that sat in the cold rain, or the lump of coal in his chest that used to be his heart. "Where will you go?", he finally asked.

"I don't know. It doesn't matter."

He couldn't help the sigh that escaped him. "It matters to me, Charlie."

This younger brother turned a haggard face toward him, and Don was momentarily taken aback. When had that happened? During the last four interminable-yet-rapid months, he had waited for Charlie to fall apart, but the man had done nothing but impress him. He had dealt aggressively with doctors, and treatments, and hospice care, and insurance policies...even mowing the lawn...in complete control. He had obviously learned a great lesson from the time he had sacrificed with their mother.

His wandering mind was jerked back to reality when Charlie spoke. "I can not stay in that house."

Don absorbed that, and felt a little worse. He should have thought of that. "You can stay with me and Liz," he offered, knowing that she would approve. "As long as you want."

Charlie snickered sarcastically and looked back at the graves. "You're newlyweds."

"It's a three-bedroom condo, Charlie, there's plenty of room." He tried desperately to lighten the conversation. "We can avoid each other all we want."

This time when his brother spoke, it was with a little more thought, in a lower voice that Don had to strain to hear. "I can not stay in L.A., and NOT live in the house, either. Can you understand that?"

Don shivered again. "I'm trying. I'm having a little trouble following you."

Charlie shifted on the bench. "I can get a job anywhere. I might even go back to England. When Susan called, she said that there is a faculty opening at Oxford."

Now Don was really confused. "Susan? What about Amita?"

Charlie shrugged. "Friends, They're both just friends. Susan is married to someone else now, remember? Amita can come with me, or we can have a long-distance relationship, or she can choose to end it. I don't care."

Don considered unwrapping his arms long enough to touch Charlie, but settled for a soft, "Yes, you do."

Charlie sighed, and the sound was full of a weariness and heartbreak that tore at his brother. "I don't want to sell it, though. The house is all that remains of Alan and Margaret Eppes -- and that's important."

This time Don did touch Charlie, physically turning his stubbled face away from the graves. "That's not true. You and I are what's left of Alan and Margaret Eppes. Please don't throw that away. I need you. Your niece, or nephew, will need you."

Charlie's eyes went wide. "Are you saying..."

Don smiled, his eyes crinkling, as he wrapped his arms back around himself. "Liz took a home pregnancy test the day...the day we lost Dad. Her doctor confirmed it yesterday. First thing she said, when she stopped crying? She already knows the name. If it's a boy, 'Alan'; and if it's a girl, 'Margaret'."

Don's smile faded as he saw the tears threaten Charlie's eyes. His brother looked quickly away. "That's wonderful news," he said, in that new tone of voice. The one he had developed over the last four months. The one that brooked no argument. "I'm very happy for you. And Liz."

Don was suddenly colder. "We have room for a nursery, and still room for you, Charlie. If it feels crowded, we'll move." His own voice became pleading. "You're part of my family. Please. Don't take that away from me, too."

There was silence. A long silence.

"I was watching the koi last night," Charlie finally said.

Don smiled a little, again. "Dad loved those fish. Those are some of my best memories, you know? My mind keeps pictures of the two of you out at the pond, as recently as a month ago. Of course, Dad's wheelchair and his two attendants were there, too -- at least they must have been -- but all I see is you, squatting beside him. Your hands were wrapped around his, and around the pond skimmer. He could barely hold his bald head up, but he leaned it into yours, and the two of you cleaned the pond."

He half-expected Charlie to burst into tears at that, and he was ready. What Don was completely unprepared for was his brother's quiet, steady, defeated voice. "I think I may die," he said, and he might have been talking about the rain. "I think this could kill me. I don't want you to see that. You've been through enough, and you have Liz...and the baby, now."

Don wanted to hit him, slug him so hard in the face that he flew off the bench. He also wanted to wrap his arms around the slight, hunched shoulders, and never let go. He did neither, but spoke himself in a fierce voice. "No. No. That is not an option. You. Are. My. Brother. You will always know me, and love me, in a way no-one else can." He shivered again, and added, somewhat recklessly, "When we die, we die together. Probably from pneumonia, if we sit here much longer."

Charlie gasped as if he was in pain, and Don grabbed his arm, again. "What?", he demanded, worried.

His brother turned huge, shimmering, wondering eyes to him. "Did you just hear Dad laugh?"

Don relaxed his hold, and smiled. "That's what I'm saying. I hear him laugh every time I hear you laugh, Charlie. Sometimes, when you stand back from a crowd and observe, that little half-grin on your face, it makes me think of Mom. We are each other's past. Nothing can change that. We have to be a significant part of each other's future, too...even if you leave me, I will always think about you, wonder if you're all right, and wish you were here."

Charlie looked away again, nodding. "I guess I can see that."

Don moved a little closer to him on the bench, because he was cold, and because he wanted to. He laid a hand on Charlie's jean-clad knee. "It'll be all right," he promised. "I'll help you."

Charlie cracked a small smile. "We'll help each other."


	3. Chapter 3

T**itle: Shadows Lengthen; Alternate Ending**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I would hope that you each understand, at this point, that all things "numb3rs" began and remain as the property of Those Other People.**

**Summary: You think you've got your grip back on life, and it turns out you're an idiot. This is a "Oneshot Sequel" to "Shadows", containing an alternate ending. (I am seeking therapy for my addiction.)**

He looked hurriedly in his father's direction. When he found him sleeping peacefully, slumped in a wheelchair that sat in the room's only patch of sunlight, he looked back at his brother and hissed. "You cannot do this."

He was met with a defensive tone. "What? It's not like it's my choice to leave right now; this is my job!"

Charlie reached for Don's arm and dragged him a little further away from their father's chair. "You do have a choice! You always have a choice, Don. Trust me, you do not want to do this!"

Literally and figuratively backed into a corner, Don snarled like a feral dog. "Who the hell do you think you are? Who are you to insinuate any opinion, here? I didn't come here to ask your permission, Charlie, I just came to say 'good-bye' to Dad. I'll be back in three weeks."

Charlie blinked at him, and his jaw tightened. "Who am I? You know who I am. I'm the one who still has nightmares, five years later, because I chose my work over my mother. I'm the one you cold-cocked the day of her funeral because you were so angry at me. I'm the sorry son of a bitch who will never get any of that time back." He leaned into Don's face, and whispered. "I am the one who is begging you not to do this. I would not wish this guilt on anyone, Don -- not even you." Abruptly, Charlie backed off, turned and walked away. Don simmered and watched his brother tenderly adjust the blanket on their father's lap, and lean to gently brush his lips across the now-bald skull. Without looking back at him, Charlie maneuvered his way around the hospital bed in the former dining room, and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Angry tears pressed at the back of his eyes, and Don shook his head to keep them at bay. He would not break. He would not break.

He would not let his brother's well-deserved guilt persuade him to turn the assignment down. When Charlie had abandoned Mom, it hadn't even been for a real job. It had been to spend hours just a few feet away in the garage, wasting time on some ridiculous math problem that made no difference, anyway. Even if he had solved it, how would that have made a difference? This was different. Don could be part of an elite team of interdepartmental agents, based in Washington D.C., assigned to a special summit for the next three weeks. Their combined expertise could make a real impact on terrorism against the United States, and that would directly affect countless lives.

He was not running away.

So, he had heard about the summit and volunteered. So, no-one had asked him to leave right now. He understood that was because even Merrick was trying to be supportive, in his own way. Still, he had jumped at the chance to send one of his agents to the meetings. It was only for three weeks. Dad was still sitting up several hours a day in the wheelchair, even choosing to nap there, instead of getting into the nearby bed.

It was only for three weeks. And he was not running away.

Alan began to snore softly and a smile crossed Don's face, leaving as soon as it arrived. He stared at his father for a long time, memorizing the laugh lines around his eyes, and the newer lines -- the ones from pain. He remembered the feeling of one of his father's bone-crushing hugs, long-since beyond his strength and relegated to memory. Don heard again, unbidden, Charlie's words: "I am the one who is begging you to not to do this."

He staggered a little as he pushed himself off the wall Charlie had backed him into. He was steady by the time he, too, squeezed past the hospital bed. He pushed through the swinging door and saw Charlie sitting silently at the table. After a moment, he crossed a few more feet and sat down facing him. "Why would you beg me to stay?"

Charlie looked at him, a little surprised that Don had settled on that argument. "I told you. I don't want you to know what it's like, to feel this kind of guilt." His chin thrust out a little, and his voice took on an edge. "Plus, he's my father; he's dying; and you're his favorite. He needs you, and I will do whatever I have to, to ensure that my father has what he needs right now."

"I'm not his favorite," Don protested, weakly. "Dad doesn't have favorites."

"Of course he does," Charlie countered calmly. "You're the first-born son, for God's sake, Donald 'Alan' Eppes. You look more like Mom than I do, so you remind him of her more. The two of you are so much alike, and take so much joy out of pretending you're different, it's not even funny. I don't mind, I'm not jealous. I'm just saying."

Don traced circles on top of the table, staring at his fingers, for a few silent seconds. Then he looked back at Charlie. "I'm scared."

Charlie reached out and grabbed his frantic fingers. "Don't be. It's a waste of time you won't get back, and there's no payoff. Frightened only steals from you, it never gives."

Don found himself wondering when the hell his baby brother had grown up, and become so wise. Before either of them could speak another word, the door swung open again and the plump, red-haired nurse smiled at them. "Dr. Eppes, don't forget you have a late-afternoon class. I came a little early, like you asked. Every Thursday until the end of the term, right?"

Charlie started a little, and checked his watch. Before he could answer, Don's baritone filled the kitchen. "Actually, Sandra, we were just talking about that, and we have another arrangement worked out, now. You can resume your regular hours next week; I'll be spending Thursday afternoons and evenings with my father."

Charlie looked at him, but Don was smiling at the nurse, who was smiling back. "Oh! That's nice, Mr. Eppes, your father will enjoy that! I'll just run back and check on him..." -- she shook her head -- "I wish he would stop napping in that chair! His neck will hurt all night!"

She disappeared from sight, still talking, and Don turned his attention back to Charlie. "I still say I'm not his favorite," he grumbled. "Thank-you."

Charlie stood and looked around the kitchen for his backpack. "You are," he answered, distractedly. "You're welcome."


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Shadows Forever**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I would hope that you each understand, at this point, that all things "numb3rs" began and remain as the property of Those Other People.**

**Summary: You think you've got your grip back on life, and it turns out you're an idiot. We can officially stop pretending this is a Oneshot.**

As experiences went, it turned out that death was not so bad.

Certainly better than the four months leading up to it.

His body had betrayed him, in several places at once. Consumed with previously unknown levels of pain coming from a myriad of directions, the damn thing seemed completely incapable of dealing with any of them. For the boys, even though he himself had always understood that the odds were definitely not in his favor, he had endured treatments. Some of them were experimental, many of them were aimed only at slowing the process of the disease (not even pretending that they could cure it), and an occasional treatment was ridiculous.

Like that time early on, when Charlie had insisted that he drink nothing but a pure juice extracted from some rare, South American jungle fruit, for 36 hours. He had found it quite distateful at the time, but he smiled fondly at his son now, who was finally sleeping somewhat fitfully on the couch. When his second parent was faced with the same horrible death as his first, dear Charlie had abandoned his numbers. He refused to talk odds -- with anyone. The genius with three doctorates had latched onto obscure cure-alls Googled on remote and seldom-visited websites bearing absolutely no scientific proof, and begged. He had literally begged, that first time, on his knees, making Alan feel like... well, he still wasn't sure what that made him feel like. All he really knew was that Charlie spent two months' salary on two gallons of this ridiculous "juice" that was probably colored water from an East-L.A. tap in somebody's house, and Alan had done it.

He had done it because he already wasn't that hungry, anyway. He didn't mind giving up food for 36 hours. Mostly, he had done it because it had only been five years, after all, and he could still clearly recall some of the things he had asked Margaret to try. It was somewhat gratifying, at this late date, to find out that Charlie was his father's son after all, and given to the same flights of fancy.

Alan hovered over him, studying a stubbled face streak with tears and exhausted even in sleep, and tried again to touch him. So far, this was the only thing he found disturbing. His hand passed through Charlie's face as if the solid flesh-and-bone was not even there. Alan couldn't feel the warmth, or dry the tears. All the motion of his hand did was stir the long curls slightly as if a breeze had passed through the living room, and his son shivered and curled in on himself a little further.

Hands on his hips, Alan frowned. This place, this new existence would be fine, if he could just let them know that he was all-right, now. He felt absolutely no pain, which was a relief, but it was far more exciting what he did feel. His entire being seemed to brim and radiate with love, and peace. Although he had not seen Margaret yet, he knew that he would, as surely as he knew his own name.

He felt a slight urge to leave, but ignored it and looked across the living room at Don. His oldest son was also sleeping, a haggard lump reclined in Alan's old easy chair. He looked older than a child ever had the right to look, to a parent. It was that look that Alan wished he could somehow erase, as he suddenly found himself standing over him. He was a little surprised, since he couldn't recall actually moving there, but then he remembered that he was dead, and shrugged. Must be a cool new transportation system, on this side. He nodded, satisfied with that explanation. Larry probably suspected as much, especially after his months in space.

Alan looked back at Don, and wished very hard, since he could not speak, or touch. _I promise you happiness_, he thought, _and love. I promise to check in and watch your babies born. I promise to laugh when they are teenagers driving you crazy. I promise to bring your mother with me. I promise to shadow you and your brother forever, and I promise to meet you here. _Somehow, Alan knew, he would be able to do all of those things. He was not in the habit of making empty promises, and he would not start now.

He felt the tugging urge, again, then found himself dead-center in the middle of the room, between Don and Charlie. He was so proud of the way they had drawn together during his illness. It had been nothing like the last months with Margaret, and he knew at least part of the peace he felt was because the boys would have each other, now. During the difficult first days, and later, as the pain faded and was replaced by new loves, new lives, new memories -- they would maintain their link to each other.

They would be all right.

Of that, Alan was sure.

The four of them -- Margaret, Alan, Don and Charlie -- would always be part of each other.

Of that, Alan was certain.

His head lifted, inexplicably drawn to a shimmering light in the distance.

He smiled broadly, and went to meet Margaret.


End file.
